


home

by kingblake



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I LOVE HTIS, PTSD, Post-panic attack, Violence, What have I done??, end my life, hfjdjdh, i love gray morals, nursing Kaz back to health? Um yes please, this is . so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: When the assassin spoke, his voice was gravelly and strange. "Smart." He mused. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dirtyhands. I've heard a lot about you." His hands drifted to the two knives strapped to his thighs. "And I'm sure it'll be a pleasure to kill you. Most of Ketterdam wants you dead, Brekker." He added, hands deft as he unsheathed his knives. Kaz didn't miss the bulge in the forearms of his sleeves (more knives) nor the two tipped daggers that emerged from the end of his boots.Kaz lifted an eyebrow, waving his hand in a nonchalant manner. "Tell me something I don't know."The assassin grinned. "You've underestimated me," he fired back, teeth bared like a wolf. "Any person who crosses me does not live to tell the tale."Kaz shot back a wolfish grin of his own, tipping his hat to the assassin. "It's a good thing I'm not a person."- or -Kaz gets in over his head and Inej nurses him back to health.





	

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO FIRST OF ALL... WHAT THE FUKC??? i kaz so much!!!!
> 
> "but jess kaz is an ass!!" i dont give a hot gay fuck what congress says
> 
> okay anyway I love him more than I love myself and I love writing about him (especially him and inej) and i hope u enjoy!!! 
> 
> (also if u really hate yourself u should listen to the song Home by Phillip Phillips while u read this)

The assassin was small.

Kaz's immediate thought was that the assassin, who'd just scaled the roof to join Kaz and his latest nemesis, was abnormally _small_. Despite being built like an ironclad, the assassin was young — barely older than Kaz himself, and no more than five feet tall. Kaz made a mental note to look into the matter when he'd inevitably return to the Crow Club, pockets overflowing with the kruge he endeavored to acquire on this particular outing.

The wind was cold, and despite the strange emptiness of the pavilion they were conducting business in, the roaring of the breeze was loud enough to make Kaz want to cover his ears. Winter was closing in on the rotting Barrel harbors, and business was more frantic than ever. Soon the Fjerdan oceans would freeze, limiting trade to those who could afford to hire Inferni that would be able to melt a path through the ice. Despite their abundance, few of the fiery Grisha would risk a trek through the ice and the hatred of the Fjerdans for a few spare kruge. The few who were willing (a squadron of about thirty Inferni) were currently owned by the Dregs.

This, unfortunately, didn't sit well with many of the men on the Merchant Council. They'd sent their youngest to confront Kaz about it —a balding, sweaty man named Herbst Plontsky.

Kaz hadn't expected much of a fight from his merchant counterpart, not with his shaking hands and his stone-age revolver — but the assassin, Kaz noted — now, _he'd_ prove to be _much_ more of a problem.

"The Merchant Council urges you to reconsider, Mister Brekker." Said Plontsky, his voice surprisingly even. "Hand over half of your Inferni, and I guarantee you, sir, that I can speak to the council on your behalf. I'm sure they'll let you keep some of the profits made from the trade."

Plontsky blinked like a toad, his sizable Adam's apple bobbing precariously above his collar. Kaz tilted his head, leaning for a moment on his cane. "You act like you didn't just bring an assassin with you to a peaceful negotiation." He murmured. Plontsky's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Kaz cut him off with an indifferent wave of his hand.

"Close your mouth, Herbst. You look like a fish." He sighed and leaned back, eyeing the assassin. The assassin, who'd remained both motionless and noiseless in his short presence, tilted his head like a dog when he felt Kaz's eyes on him. The assassin, though strangely short, had shorn red hair and glassy black eyes.

If there was anything Kaz had learned in his years in the Barrel, it was how to read body language. The tilt of the assassin's shoulders, the uplift of his chin, even the tic between his eyebrows — it was enough to tell Kaz what he needed to know. The assassin was young, likely inexperienced, but arrogant enough to take on the job of killing Dirtyhands.

Kaz looked back to the merchant. "You can't _guarantee_ me anything, Plontsky. Your argument is weak, and the Merchant Council obviously knows this," he gestured at the assassin with his cane. "Because they sent you with a weapon to kill me if I said no." The assassin obviously found pleasure in this statement, because he cocked his head and offered Kaz a grin reminiscent to the snarl of a dog.

When the assassin spoke, his voice was gravelly and strange. "Smart." He mused. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dirtyhands. I've heard a lot about you." His hands drifted to the two knives strapped to his thighs. "And I'm sure it'll be a pleasure to kill you. Most of Ketterdam wants you dead, Brekker." He added, hands deft as he unsheathed his knives. Kaz didn't miss the bulge in the forearms of his sleeves (more knives) nor the two tipped daggers that emerged from the end of his boots.

Kaz lifted an eyebrow, waving his hand in a nonchalant manner. "Tell me something I don't know."

The assassin grinned. "You've underestimated me," he fired back, teeth bared like a wolf. "Any person who crosses me does not live to tell the tale."

Kaz shot back a wolfish grin of his own, tipping his hat to the assassin. "It's a good thing I'm not a person."

The merchant, Plontsky, pushed a shivering hand through his thinning hair. "Now, gentlemen," he said hurriedly. "There's no need to fight. We can settle this fair and square, and we can all go home happy."

The assassin cocked his head. "Herbst," he chided, clicking his tongue. "The Council is paying me an unbelievable sum to kill Dirtyhands. How can I claim my reward if I don't, in fact, kill him?"

The merchant tucked a finger under his collar and pulled at it, as though he were having trouble breathing. "Mister Holmes," he said painfully. "The Council is paying you to kill him if _necessary_. It clearly," he added, gesturing at Kaz's motionless form, "is not currently necessary."

Kaz raised his palms in a submissive gesture. Even if the assassin — Holmes — were to attack him, Kaz easily had a height advantage. Longer reach, larger body mass.

And yet —

There was something about this assassin that threw Kaz off balance. Whether it be the toothy grin, the unnerving stillness, the winking obsidian of his irises — Kaz didn't quite trust Holmes's morals. Not that Kaz _himself_ had any morals to begin with.

Holmes grinned like a child who'd just discovered a new toy. "What if Mister Brekker decides to bash your head in with his cane? What then? I'm sure we could arrange something."

Kaz tilted his head. Holmes intrigued him, but he resigned to take a step back. Just in case.

Herbst wrung his hands in front of his waist. As a man standing between two awfully deadly people, he seemed much more composed than Kaz guessed he would have felt. He tapped his gloved fingertips against the crow head of his cane, the familiar ridges and grooves almost comforting in the situation. Clicking his tongue again, he offered up a hyena grin that sent a tremor through Plontsky's frame.

Holmes let out a sigh, one eyebrow rising nearly to his hairline. "I wouldn't put it past Mister Brekker, Herbst. You're not under my protection." Kaz watched the assassin's hand drift to a curving knife strapped to his right thigh. It looked like a sickle, like a smaller version of the grim reaper's choice blade. It was glittery silver, wicked sharp, and grooves in the leather bound hilt let Kaz know how frequently this particular blade had been used. It was the assassin's favored blade, and by the tensing of the assassin's shoulders, Kaz knew Holmes was ready to put it to use.

Holmes took a step towards Plontsky, moving like a snake through water. "And what if Dirtyhands decided to disarm me and use my own knife to cut your throat? What then?" Asked Holmes, spinning the blade around his fingers like a windmill in the breeze.

Plontsky, sweating through his suit, gulped down a breath of air. "Now, sir," he wobbled, addressing Holmes, "That won't be necessary. Mister Brekker is an honest man," — Kaz scoffed at the notion — "and there is still room for negotiation." He cleared his throat, pushing his trembling hands into his pockets. "Mister Brekker, the Council will take eight of your Inferni for the price of twenty thousand kruge."

Kaz considered this. Twenty thousand kruge was an unreasonable price for eight Inferni, and for a moment he thought he might accept the offer. Leaning back on his cane, he cast a glance at the assassin, who'd been inching towards Plontsky. For a moment Nina's voice boomed around his head.

_Grisha aren't for **sale** , Brekker._

An involuntary smile quirked up one corner of his mouth before his expression went slack again. The assassin was close to Plontsky now, much too close. His fingers were white-knuckled around the hilt of his blade, and he looked on the verge of an attack. Kaz hadn't brought reinforcements, he realized, and yet — he'd fought an unfair tavern brawl against his own best fighters — and won. Even armed only with his cane and his wits, Kaz was sure he'd be able to hold his own. Even if it meant taking a few licks in the process.

Kaz lifted a hand and tipped the brim of his hat towards Plontsky. "My fine, sweaty friend," he began, lifting his cane in a small salute. "I'm afraid we don't have a deal."

There was a flash of movement, a blink of red fabric and glittering silver and then —

Plontsky dropped to his knees, hands scrabbling at the new slash across his throat and then — nothing. The man lay facedown, dead, blood as red as the heart on a playing card spreading fast around his head. Kaz took a step back, clicking his tongue. Holmes looked exceptionally pleased with himself. In a perfect flick of the wrist, he'd whipped the blood off of the curved dagger.

"You're going to have to clean that up, you know." Kaz murmured calmly. He nudged the dead merchant with the toe of his boot. "It's terribly rude to just cut someone's throat without warning." Kaz chided. "You could have at least given him a heads up."

Holmes seemed to consider this. "Right." He said, eyes flicking towards Kaz. They were wide with a hunger Kaz knew like the back of his own hand, almost better than he knew himself. It could only have been described as one thing — _bloodlust_. Like a shark, Holmes had smelled blood — and now, inevitably, he'd want more.

Kaz braced himself, careful not to give away the tightening of his hand around his cane. He, like any good fighter, was well aware of his own tell. He always gripped his cane a little tighter before he lunged, always gave a near imperceptible tilt of his head to telegraph his next move. It was involuntary, of course, and for the most part it was near undetectable, but Kaz had seen this assassin's skill — and Kaz wasn't about to underestimate him again.

The assassin took in a breath, and then his face broke into the most inhuman grin Kaz had seen yet. It was less of a grin and more of a snarl, all teeth and gums and malicious intent. Kaz cocked an eyebrow.

"Well?" He asked. "If you're going to kill me, get on with it. I have a meeting in an hour."

The assassin's grin faltered for a moment and just like that — he lunged.

He was faster than Kaz had anticipated, but Kaz was prepared. He dodged the assassin's first swipe, and on the next go-around, he outstretched his cane just enough to slow the flitting assassin. Holmes moved like a hummingbird, in and out of focus, fast and tiny. It was only the glint of his knives in the sun that gave him away, and at first, Kaz found it surprisingly easy to fend him off with just a few bumps of his cane and some sly remarks.

But Holmes grew impatient. The young assassin lunged too close, too quickly, and Kaz was a beat behind —

An angry red slash appeared on Kaz's sleeve and he jerked his arm away, a scowl marring his angled features. He growled and struck out with his cane, pleased when he heard the dull thud of contact, but his victory was short lived. The tiny assassin, comparable to a cannon ball, barreled into Kaz's side and the two toppled, Kaz unable to brace his bad leg for the impact.

He landed on his bad knee, and despite the pain lancing through his body, he forced himself to stay focused, now using only his forearms to fend off the savage assassin. His cane lay motionless on the ground just out of his reach. Kaz's hat tipped backwards off his head as he tumbled with the assassin, writhing and kicking his way out from under the relentless swipes of the assassin's blades. He didn't manage to escape Holmes's final swipe, though, earning a gash through his eyebrow that immediately began to drip into his eye. He wiped the blood with the back of his gloved hand, not worrying about the leather (he needed a new pair of gloves anyways) and lunged for his cane, managing to scoop it up and knock the sickle from Holmes's swinging arms.

Holding his cane like a baseball bat, Kaz had the advantage of length. The assassin was fast, though, much faster than Kaz had ever seen anyone move — _including Inej_ , he thought bitterly — and his constant attacks were proving tiresome, even for Kaz.

Luckily for Kaz, though, the assassin was wearing red. Kaz aimed and swung at the red patches of air, swinging like a seasoned ball player, and for a moment, he felt himself making contact, felt the thud of his cane against flesh. He dodged flashes of silver, sidestepping, pushing back, blocking with his cane, and was bracing himself for a counterattack when the assassin shoved into him again, the both of them clattering to the ground in a tangle of limbs and gnashing teeth.

Kaz was pleased to see, for a moment, that his battering with his cane had managed to disarm the assassin. The two of them tussled on the ground, Kaz blocking blows to his face and returning some of his own, doing what he could to avoid the bare skin of the assassin's fists. The assassin didn't seem to be keen on using his three remaining knives, but Kaz wasn't complaining. He was bleeding from a cut across his bicep, a tear through his eyebrow, and another gash through his left calf. Nothing that couldn't be healed by a Grisha, and yet — he wasn't willing to put himself through that.

He swung out with his fist, welcoming the satisfying thump of his knuckles against a fleshy jaw, and then everything was quiet.

 _The calm before the storm,_ Kaz thought unhelpfully, before the assassin's hands flashed forwards once more.

This time, they closed around his neck.

A beat of silence, of grinding teeth, and then —

Kaz was choking.

The assassin's hands, bare and hot against his neck, immediately found their way into Kaz's consciousness. Water filled his lungs and poured into his eyes as he yelped like a wounded puppy, gloved hands scrabbling at the air, reaching for something — _anything_ — that might get the assassin off his neck. His cane had once more rolled just out of reach, and the only thing Kaz could think of was pulpy skin, rotting teeth, disorienting stench, the death creaks of the Reaper's barge and the thumps of new bodies being added to a burn pile.

He choked on air, on water, and as Holmes's hands tightened like a vice around his neck, he tipped his head backwards, hands grabbing for something, _nothing_ , finding no purchase on the ground. Lightning cracked again and again through his limbs as he gasped for air, finding no relief from the pressure around his neck.

This was nothing like his careful touches with Inej. With her, he had a root — a source. He grounded himself in the warmth of her fingertips, in the steadiness of her gaze, in the reassuring comfort of her smile. With her, he was willing to offer himself up, to give her the one thing he'd never let anyone else have.

Holmes was _taking_ this from him. Inej _asked_ , and Kaz delivered. Holmes was just _taking_ it.

He gasped for air and gave one last shove, with all his might, the force of Ketterdam behind him. Holmes toppled off him, fingernails scraping gauges into Kaz's throat. Kaz rolled, sucking in deep, rattling breaths, and found purchase on the handle of his cane. Swinging it in a wide arc, it connected with a sickening crunch against the top of the assassin's head, sending the shorter man sprawling across the bloody pavement.

Kaz's position on the ground had caused the blood from his eyebrow to pour backwards into his hair, staining the ebony locks purple. Scrambling to his feet, he scooped up his cane and stumbled backwards, reeling, dizzy, fighting back nausea and the inevitable wave of vomit that threatened to bring his breakfast of coffee and whiskey back to surface.

He gripped his cane tighter than he gripped his own lifeline. The assassin tried to peel himself off the ground, but Kaz was quicker. Despite the blood in his eyes and the tears streaking through the dirt on his face, Kaz had a clear target in his sights.

He went for the assassin's hands first.

Two swings of his cane shattered the bones in both hands, Kaz taking care to shatter and break each and every one of the assassin's nimble features.

Then he went for the knees.

"You can't kill me!" Kaz bellowed, swinging like a madman. He'd lost all semblance of composure, all semblance of collected dignity. Kaz Brekker, in that moment, was no longer _Kaz Brekker._ He was Dirtyhands, bastard of the Barrel, Ketterdam's foulest creation. He was a monster.

 _Crack_.

Holmes went down with a scream, dropping to his remaining knee. His other was shattered, his leg bent at an awkward angle.

"You think you're good enough to _kill_ me?" Kaz asked, voice stony, grabbing the assassin by the hair. Jerking Holmes's head back, Kaz slipped his hand into the assassin's sleeve. He produced one of the assassin's hidden daggers, brandishing it as carelessly as he might brandish a cup of tea or a bar of soap.

"You think you can cross Dirtyhands and get _away_ with it?" He growled, voice coming out in a breathy rasp. He fought another wave of vomit, Jordie's lifeless body flashing like thunder through his mind before he regained some semblance of composure again. Kaz flipped the dagger and held it by the hilt as though he were planning to sculpt a stone statuette.

Holmes lay limp in Kaz's grip, whimpering like a wounded dog. Kaz tightened his fingers in the assassin's hair, tugging him to his feet. Kaz pressed the tip of the blade to the assassin's eye and let out a noise that could only be described as a snarl.

Holmes gathered up a glob of saliva and attempted to spit it at Kaz, but not before Kaz had carved his way into his eye socket. Quickly, as though he'd practiced the motion, Kaz plucked up the assassin's eye, now severed and limp, and pried the assassin's mouth open. He forced the bloody eyeball into the assassin's mouth, ignoring the screams and grunts of frustration coming from the assassin's throat, and then he stepped back, letting go of Holmes's hair. The assassin dropped to the ground with a sickening thud, his eye rolling from his mouth and landing in a pool of blood not too far away.

Kaz took a few staggering steps backwards, eyes wide with a concoction of fear and anger and embarrassment, and then after a few moments of silence, he turned and began to limp away, both legs aching and head pounding with images of Jordie's lifeless body, pliant and pulpy under his hands.

—————

Kaz wasn't a good climber. Not as good as he used to be, and certainly not as good as Inej. Sure, he could handle himself, scale a building or two, but it was always at the expense of his leg. He much preferred the streets, where the ground was even and the footing was reliable, but when push came to shove — Kaz would climb if he needed to.

Right now, he _needed_ to.

The climb to his window was daunting, even if it was only two stories up, thanks to his busted legs and slashed arm. He wasn't about to struggle through the front door, not when there were tear tracks streaking through the blood on his cheeks and his hands were shaking like he was going through a withdrawal.

He'd managed it, though, through sheer force of will and what leftover adrenaline was keeping him from losing his lunch all over himself. He hadn't yet been able to chase thoughts of Jordie from his mind, hadn't yet been able to regain the feeling in his fingertips and his toes.

He scaled the wall nonetheless, and was now crouched on the floor of his bathroom, clutching the sides of his toilet and dry-heaving into the bowl, neck hot with shame. He'd been in there for only a few minutes when a fist thumped on the door. Kaz recognized the tilt of Jesper's voice immediately, and as the Zemeni sharpshooter spoke, Kaz fought to keep himself under control, knuckles white against the rim of the toilet.

"Kaz?" Jesper asked softly, just outside the locked door. "Are you okay? I saw you climb in." There was a shuffle of feet outside, and then Jesper's voice cut through the door again, laced with concern. "You were covered in blood. I had to do something."

There was another shuffle of feet, a whisper, and then a softer knock on the door, much lighter and much more meaningful. Kaz staggered to his feet, fighting a wave of vertigo. He was ready to rip the head off of whoever Jesper had brought, but when he heard the soft lilt of the new voice, he almost passed out with relief.

"Kaz?" Asked Inej, saying his name with that same reverence Kaz had come to realize she saved for him. He fumbled with the doorknob, bloody fingers slipping on the polished brass. The bolt, jammed precariously into the peeling wall, came unlatched with a loud click. He tugged the door open, gasping in a breath of air, and promptly tumbled into Inej, his unwelcome nausea knocking him off his feet. Fortunately for him, Inej was _there_ , and her arms snaked around his waist to catch him (funny how familiar her arms felt around his hips, Kaz thought unhelpfully) and she helped him back into the bathroom, nudging the door shut with her toe.

It closed with a soft click, and Inej struggled Kaz onto his toilet, closing the lid so he'd have somewhere to sit down. Kaz tipped his head back against the wall, breathing heavily as Inej examined him.

"Under the sink," Kaz murmured. She tilted her head, for a moment looking confused. She opened her mouth to speak, but Kaz cut her off with a lift of his hand. "There's bandages under the sink," he reiterated, head pounding.

Inej rummaged around in the cupboard, producing bandages and antiseptic. After a second look at Kaz, she located a suturing needle and stitching, and for a moment a flash of fear filled Kaz's mind. She couldn't touch him. _She couldn't make him go through that again._

Inej set down her supplies in front of him, then brought herself into a kneeling position, resting her hands on her knees. "Kaz," she said pointedly, that same reverence filling the word. Her eyes flicked from the gash on his calf to the one on his bicep, to the one throbbing through his eyebrow. "What happened?" She asked.

She'd known he was going out, because he'd told her.

But she hadn't followed him — not like she usually did. Kaz scrubbed a hand through his blood-crusted hair and bumped his head against the grain of the bathroom wall. "Bad deal." He murmured, and he watched as her eyes flirted to the three marks against the skin of his neck, the place where the assassin had first strangled him and then clawed at his skin as he'd been pushed away.

Inej's eyes flew wide with realization and she rolled forwards onto the balls of her feet, hands hovering carefully over his knees. "I need to help you," she said, her voice soft and warm and comforting and everything Kaz wasn't.

Kaz gulped down a hard lump of anxiety and offered Inej a shaky nod, despite the protest of every nerve in his body that told him she was about to have to touch his skin.

He could do it. He could survive it. It was _Inej_ , he reminded himself. Not an assassin.

Inej began with caution. Her fingers, light as butterflies, flitted across his front, first helping him out of his jacket. She hung it over the towel rack on the far side of the bathroom, and Kaz made a mental note to clean it later. He'd have to sew it back up, which wasn't an issue, but the more pressing matter, _currently_ , was that Inej Ghafa was crouched in front of him, unbuttoning his shirt.

Kaz's eyes went blurry for a moment (he'd imagined her unbuttoning his shirt in a much different scenario many times before) and then he finally reacted, lifting his arm to stop her. Her fingers hovered over the third button and her eyes drifted to his, a leveled stare that could have melted butter.

"I need to have a look at your chest, Kaz, and I can't do that with your shirt in the way." Her voice, soft as ever, drifted around him and filled his ears. It was a welcome release from the roaring water, but it wasn't enough — not yet. Her eyes were wide, expectant, and for a moment Kaz wanted to lose himself in them, all the warmth and solitude and comfort that they offered.

Kaz offered her a small grin, something that felt foreign and unusual on his face. "If you wanted to take my shirt off," he rumbled, "you could have just asked."

He didn't miss the blush that flitted across Inej's cheeks after his words, and for an excruciating few moments he tried to sort out why he'd decided to say that in the first place. Inej took care to keep her fingers away from his skin, from what he could tell, and after a few short moments of confusion, she voiced his concerns for him.

"You're feverish," she told him, her fingers hovering just above his heart. He was bare-chested in front of her, eyes hooded, feeling like he might pass out. He let out a breath, groaning, and Inej hushed him with a swipe of her tongue over her lower lip. Kaz blinked like a toad, holding Inej's gaze for a moment before he closed his eyes.

"Just _fix_ it," he urged her, chest straining against his heaving breaths. Inej charged into motion, her fingers like fire against his feverish skin. Kaz didn't miss the way her fingers came away from his chest, slick with his own sweat. She touched him lightly, never daring to press harder than she needed to, and in a few agonizing moments she'd bandaged up his arm. He dropped it to his side, head tipping towards his chest, his thoughts scrambled around in his head. He wanted to cry, to laugh, to lean forwards and tell Inej everything he'd ever thought about her.

He didn't.

Instead, he let her roll up the leg of his slacks, let her butterfly fingers drift over the skin of his calf, let her heal him the way he'd never been able to heal himself. The antiseptic burned, but nothing, he thought groggily, hurt more than the water in his lungs and the skin under his fingernails.

He must have made a noise, made some kind of noise of discomfort, because Inej pulled her hands away and rocked back onto her heels. Her brow was creased, lines of concern around her mouth. "Kaz," she said quietly, and for a moment he was prepared to offer her a story about why he was a quivering mess

But she stopped his thoughts in their tracks. "Your forehead." She said, distracting him momentarily. "I need to clean it." She lifted her hands in a silent question. "Will you let me clean it?"

Kaz lifted his good hand and pushed it through his hair, thick with dried blood. He choked back another near sob when she glanced up at him through those luxurious black lashes of hers, her sudden vulnerability a drug that no Grisha could concoct.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his head tipping forwards again, reaching for a lock of hair that had fallen from her braid —

And then he froze, his chest and his shoulders and every movable muscle tensing with fear. He pulled his hand away from her face like he'd decided to hold it over an open flame. Inej didn't say anything, only let out a purr of laughter. "It's the fever," he growled, and bumped his head against the wall again.

Inej pulled her hands back for a moment. "You're tighter than a fist, Kaz. Just let me clean you up so we can get you to bed." He considered this, eyeing her outstretched fingers. He'd always admired her hands, so long and lithe and nimble. Like Jordie's hands.

"Sure." He said, his brain scrambling to make sense of the situation. She was close to touching his face, too close, but Kaz had braced himself for this — she'd allowed him enough time to regain some semblance of sanity, and when the washcloth made contact with his forehead, a breath of hot air escaped him. There were no fingertips, no butterflies, no burning touches.

It was only washcloth, the sting of the antiseptic, and Inej's smiling eyes that kept him grounded for just a little bit longer. She dabbed away the blood on his face, cleaned out his eyes and purified the grime and muck and _sin_ that had ground its way into his features, manifested in the forms of sunken cheeks and dark circles.

She was swift with the nursing, careful to keep her fingers away from his face. Kaz wanted to take her cheeks between his hands and remind her how much of a blessing she continually was, but a small part of him — the part that remained still the voice of _reason_ — reminded him that information like that was better left unsaid.

So he remained silent. It was only until she asked to wash his hair that he blinked his eyes open, pupils blown wide with wanting.

She leveled him a stare that could have softened the Fjerdan queen into submission and he could only hope to refuse her, her eyebrow cocked and the beginnings of a smile on her lips. "Can I get the blood out of your hair?" She asked him, sending his pulse into a frenzy where it pounded a hard rhythm at the base of his neck.

Kaz didn't miss her questions, the way she waited for his explicit permission. She didn't press, she didn't pry, and when he showed any signs of discomfort she peeled herself away to wait until he was ready again.

She was so much like Jordie, he thought blearily. She was everything he needed and _so much more._

With a halting nod, he tipped his head forwards. There was a shuffle as she retrieved the soap from his shower, another as she arranged herself in a way she could easily access the top of his head. She wet her hands in the sink, lathered them with the soap, and with another nod from Kaz, she slid her fingers into his hair.

Kaz didn't know what he was expecting. Another wave of nausea? Water in his lungs? Thunder in his fingertips?

None of that came.

If fireworks were a feeling, Kaz thought, then that's what her hands felt like. Her fingers were deft, massaging his scalp, pulling and pushing and making little circles of purchase that sent pleasant shocks of relief through his arms.

He groaned and leaned into her touch, wanting more, something to distract him from the receding water in his lungs. He earned himself a small chuckle from Inej herself, something he'd told himself he'd die to hear again, and when she was finished, it was too little and too much all at the same time.

The next morning, Kaz would wake up in his bed, strangely rested, sweating bullets. His fever would have broken, and sitting in a little chair next to him, watching him intently, would be Inej Ghafa. And their hands, long and bare and nimble, would be twined together in a loose knot between them.

When Jesper would inevitably walk in to offer Inej breakfast, he wouldn't miss the cuts across Kaz's body, the ease with which he held Inej's hand. He wouldn't even flinch at the sudden vulnerability of Dirtyhands. Kaz would level him a dark glare but nothing else, and Jesper would leave with a soft click of the door behind him.

When Jesper would return to the Van Eck estate, Wylan would ask him what had happened to Kaz.

Jesper would simply shrug.

"He got hurt, then got himself all bandaged up." He would say, throwing an arm around Wylan's shoulder. "Nothing new."

But Jesper wouldn't forget the sight of their hands together, between them, sitting as lightly as butterflies on the bedspread. He would glance at Wylan, then grin.

Nobody needed to know.

 

**Author's Note:**

> did u like??? im NOT sure if i was doing okay in the whole describing PTSD accurately department but anyone who's well-versed should lmk so i can see what i need to fix/do better on. don't worry about typos, bc i usually go back and fix em if I find em aND!! i hope u enjoyed!!! catch me on twitter at @kaszbrekker !!


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